Blood on the Tongue

19

DCI Kessen buttonholed Diane Fry in the corridor on her way back from the interview room. He put a hand on her shoulder to delay her as Gavin Murfin walked ahead.

'Detective Sergeant Fry — everything under control?'

Fry felt the muscles in her shoulder knotting where his hand was touching her. She drew in her breath steadily to control the reaction, which she knew was unreasonable. She wondered whether DCI Kessen had been made aware of her background, her reason for transferring to Derbyshire from the West Midlands. Some men had no idea how to behave towards a woman who had been a rape victim. On the other hand, maybe he had too little interest in her even to have read her file. She was afraid he was measuring up to be her worst nightmare — a large stumbling block in her progress up the promotional ladder. A transfer from E Division was starting to look even more attractive.

'Yes, sir,' she said.

'Good team that you have, I expect?' he said.

'Excellent.'

Kessen took his hand off her shoulder, but he was still standing too close, several inches inside her personal space. Fry could see that he was the sort of man who wasn't aware of the effect he had on people. Probably he had been walking a fine line for a while, waiting for someone to put their hand up and complain.

'DC Cooper now — a very conscientious officer, isn't he? An example to some of the others.'

'Sure,' said Fry. Well, compared to the ones who rang in sick with bad backs, she thought. But where the hell was this paragon of virtue right now? Just like yesterday, he had managed to make a few simple enquiries last for hours.

Fry looked at her watch. If only she could get away from meetings for a while, she would get out there and find that example to the others, and kick his arse.

'Gavin, has Ben Cooper called in yet?' she said as she caught up with him in the CID room.

'No. He's interviewing the staff at the Snake Inn, isn't he?'

'Let's hope so. He should have called by now.'

'He'll be having a pie and a couple of pints while he's there,' said Murfin. 'I would.'

'Back to the phones, Gavin.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'And leave the lobster alone.'

Cooper perched on the sofa in the sitting room of the Lukasz bungalow. It was much too warm for him. Even with his heavy waxed coat hanging in the hallway, he still felt stifled by the central heating.

'You don't sound as though you're interested in the past,' he said. 'Doesn't your father's history interest you?'

'Oh, it used to,' said Peter Lukasz. 'But time passes, and people change. There comes a point when we have to move on.'

'Perhaps your father doesn't feel able to move on yet.'

'Oh, I think that's exactly right,' said Lukasz.

Grace Lukasz had disappeared somewhere to the back of the house to leave them alone. Her departure had left Peter looking uncertain. He was reluctant to sit down, but instead stood on the rug in front of the fireplace, swaying gently on the balls of his feet, his gaze tending to drift past Cooper's shoulder to the window that looked out on Woodland Crescent.

'We all treasure our Polish heritage, of course,' said Lukasz. 'But most of us have become as much British now as Polish. My father is going the other way — he's going backwards, regressing into his past, almost into a time when he knew no English. Being two nationalities is a delicate enough balance as it is. I don't need my father trying to push me the wrong way.'

'But you were born here, weren't you? Is it such a difficult balance?'

'You'd be surprised,' said Lukasz. 'Of course, I'm half English. But every time I'm asked to spell my name, I feel a bit foreign. Some Poles came up with anglicized versions when they settled here. My name, for example, could so easily have been changed to Lucas. Nobody would have questioned it then. Peter Lucas. It sounds fine, doesn't it? You couldn't get much more English than that. But there are other people who believe it would be a betrayal of some kind, a denial of our nationality, a sacrifice of a vital part of ourselves.'

'Your father being one of those people?'

'Yes, my father. And his sister, my aunt Krystyna.'

'But what do you think?'

'It has to be what seems right for the individual, doesn't it? It has to be a question of how we see ourselves, whether we think of ourselves as English or Polish, or whatever. All that matters is what each person thinks his own identity is, and whether he's willing to sacrifice any part of it to be able to fit in. That's the question we have to ask ourselves.'

'Not as easy a question as it sounds.'

'Did you notice my father's hand?' asked Lukasz.

'You mean the fingers he has missing?'

'Yes. He lost them as a result of frostbite and his injuries in the crash. It was caused by the delay in rescuing them from the moor afterwards. My father took his gloves off to try to staunch blood from the wounds that Klemens had suffered.'

Cooper nodded. But that hadn't been in the books he'd read.

'My father and Klemens were more than just cousins,' said Lukasz. 'They were very close, like brothers — and that's not an exaggeration. Not for Poles. They'd been brought up together in their village in Polskie province. They escaped together when the Germans came, and they went to France. They had to leave when France was invaded too. Hitler called the Polish servicemen "Sikorski's Tourists" after their commanding officer, and because they moved from one country to another. He shouldn't have been so contemptuous, because they were some of the best fighters there were. They had passion, you see. They had an enemy to fight. Eventually, Zygmunt and Klemens arrived in England to fight with the RAF. The British airmen used to called them "The Terrible Twins" because they were always together and they thought they looked alike.'

'Were they really very much alike?'

'Not all that much.'

'Do you have a photograph?'

'My father has some. They're very precious to him, but I suppose he won't mind you seeing them.'

Lukasz was gone only a moment. But when he re-appeared he looked almost furtive, as if he were carrying something shameful.

'This one was taken when my father and Klemens Wach were first based in Britain. They were billeted in a hotel in Brighton. I think they probably had a good time there for a while.'

'Who were the girls?'

'I've no idea. There were always plenty of girls, according to my father. Plenty of girls for a good-looking young man in a pilot's uniform. And the Polish airmen were a bit exotic too, I suppose. Why do you ask?'

'I was thinking one of them might be your mother. A wartime romance, was it?'

'Oh no, they didn't meet until after the war.'

'I see.'

As far as Cooper could tell, almost the only thing that made Lukasz and Wach look like twins was the uniform. Almost the only thing. But there was also something about the jaunty angle of their caps, the way they held their shoulders, and a certain Slavic set of the eyes. Zygmunt Lukasz was taller and more heavily built and had a greater air of maturity. In the picture, he had one arm round a girl with dark permed hair, and the other across the shoulders of his slighter cousin, Klemens. He looked not so much like a twin, more like an uncle, or at least an older brother.

'According to the inquest report, Klemens Wach died of serious multiple injuries. They weren't specific about what caused them.'

Peter Lukasz shrugged. 'My father has never talked about the details of the crash. It was pretty horrific, by all accounts. Some of the British crew members were actually dismembered, I gather. They were thrown through the framework of the aircraft. Two others burned to death, trapped in the wreckage. McTeague had a lot to answer for. He was lucky they never tracked him down.'

'Do you think McTeague is dead, Mr Lukasz?'

'I don't know. My guess would be that he got back to Canada as soon as he could. McTeague had a wife and a newborn child over there, remember. Apparently, he talked about them all the time, and said he was desperate to get back home and see them. You know, at one time, my father even talked about going to Canada to look for him. But I think, in the end, he preferred to carry the pain and the memories with him intact. His hatred of Danny McTeague has been like a talisman to be cherished. It's kept his memory of Klemens fresh and alive, if that makes sense. If he knew McTeague had died peacefully in his sleep somewhere, it would be like losing that talisman. Then there would be nobody left to hate. And then, worst of all, there would be nothing more that he could do for Klemens. His memories would begin to fade. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?'

'Yes, I think so.'

Lukasz nodded. 'I've thought about it a lot over the years. My father and I are alike, I think. That's the way I would feel, too, in the same circumstances. Hatred and a desire for vengeance are things you can hold on to. They are solid things. They give you a focus.'

'A purpose in life?'

'If you like. But, as I say, it would have undermined all that if my father had ever met McTeague again and discovered he was only another human being. Of course, McTeague was just a man who made a mistake, a man who was afraid and let down his comrades. But it was better for my father to preserve his picture of a monster. It was the only thing that made the death of Klemens more understandable. It was the only way to make sense of something that was ultimately senseless.'

Cooper listened for a moment to the claws of the parrot rattling on the bars of its cage in the corner of the room.

'It's ironic that it should come up now,' said Lukasz. 'It's against the spirit of oplatek.'

'Sorry?'

' Oplatek is our tradition of forgiveness and reconciliation. It's symbolized by eating the oplatki wafers. And this Sunday is the oplatek dinner for the Edendale Polish community, down at the ex-servicemen's club, the Dom Kombatanta. It's one of the high points of our calendar. It certainly means a lot to my father.'

Cooper had never heard of such a thing, and he couldn't quite picture how to spell the word that Lukasz was pronouncing. Forgiveness and reconciliation? Well, there was certainly plenty of scope for that.

'Do you know somebody called George Malkin?' asked Cooper.

Lukasz frowned. 'Malkin? Should I? What's the connection? Was he in the RAF?'

'No. He's a local man. He lives near the place where the Lancaster crashed.'

'I'm sorry, it doesn't mean anything.'

Cooper handed the photograph back reluctantly. 'They were all brave men,' he said.

Lukasz laughed. 'That's what everybody says. Everybody who wasn't involved, anyway. But it isn't what my father says. He says that none of them was brave. He says it wasn't about bravery at all. In his view, they did what they could because they were part of a crew, a team, and it was impossible to consider letting your comrades down. They were very close, you know, and the circumstances brought them even closer. It's impossible for us to understand now how close they were.'

'Like a family, in fact. It's always worse when things go wrong within a family. It feels like a betrayal.'

'Yes. But these days, even families aren't as close as that. Ask my son.'

'Your son?'

'Andrew. He lives in London now, but he's been visiting us recently.'

'Is he still here?'

'No. He was only visiting.'

'When did you see him off?'

Lukasz seemed to hesitate about answering. 'He hasn't been here since Sunday,' he said.

'Was he going straight back to London?' said Cooper. 'Was he travelling by train or did he have a car? It might have been difficult in the snow.'

It was Grace Lukasz who answered. She'd approached quietly behind her husband's back to listen to the conversation, as if drawn by the merest mention of her son's name.

'He arrived in a taxi. And we didn't see him off,' she said.

'Oh? Why?'

'I was on duty at the hospital on Sunday night,' said Lukasz. 'As I told you, I work in the A amp;E department. By the time I arrived home, Andrew was gone.'

'Was there a family row of some kind?' asked Cooper. The Lukaszes both looked embarrassed at the question. 'It happens in every family, I know.'

'Andrew went off without saying goodbye at all,' said Grace Lukasz.

Cooper looked at the heaps of snow piled up outside on Woodland Crescent. The snow was becoming stained with car exhaust fumes and soot from central-heating flues. It didn't say much for the air quality in the Crescent.

'Mrs Lukasz, do you mean that your son just disappeared?'

'Well, in a way.'

'Did he have any luggage with him?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Have you reported him missing?'

'He isn't missing,' said Peter Lukasz. 'He left a little suddenly, that's all. I presume somebody came for him. A taxi, whatever.'

'He promised he would phone me,' said Grace. 'I've called his home in London several times, but there's only an answering machine. He said his wife is away in America, and we don't have his mobile number.'

'He probably has some urgent business to deal with,' said Peter. 'Andrew is regional sales manager for a medical supplies company.'

Cooper began to get exasperated. People could sometimes be so slow to accept that tragedy could intrude directly into their own comfortable lives.

'Could you describe your son, please? How old is he? How tall? Is he dark or fair? What was he wearing?'

'Well, Andrew is dark, like me,' said Peter Lukasz. 'He's thirty-two. I don't know what he was wearing. What's this all about?'

But his wife's face was already growing pale. 'The man found dead on the Snake Pass,' she said. 'But that's the man who called here at the bungalow on Monday, isn't it?'

' Is it?' said Cooper.

They both stared at him wordlessly. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on Peter Lukasz's forehead. He seemed to find it too warm in his own bungalow.

'I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come in and have a look,' said Cooper. 'In case you're able to help us identify him.'

Grace Lukasz shook her head. 'But that wasn't Andrew,' she said. 'Surely that's not what you're saying?' She gave a short laugh. 'I know my own son.'

Peter Lukasz seemed to understand better. 'It's ridiculous,' he said. 'Quite ridiculous. But I'll do it, if it helps to get the idea out of your head.'

'Thank you, sir. However, I think we'll need both of you. Your wife was the only one who saw the man who came to your door.'

Cooper got ready to leave the bungalow. The sky was looking heavy again outside. Peter Lukasz saw him out, but paused on the doorstep in his slippers. Lukasz seemed as though he might have something else he wanted to say, but Cooper didn't know what question he should be asking him.

'How long has your father been working on his story?' said Cooper.

'About a week.'

'Is that all? What made him decide to start it now?'

'Oh, I think that's because he knows he's dying,' said Lukasz. 'He has advanced liver cancer, and all that can be done for him now is to control the pain. We've been told that he'll be dead within a few months.'

Cooper stood in the CID room as he stripped off his coat and stared at his shoes, which were turning a strange grey where they had once been black. He flicked though the messages and memos on his desk, allocating them to three piles in order of priority. He'd learned the technique on a time-management course. Important and urgent, important but not urgent, urgent but not important. In this case, only the first would get dealt with. Towards the bottom, he stopped and read a telephone message more carefully. There was no pile this one would fit into. It didn't fit into his duties at all.

He put the message aside carefully on his desk while he dealt with the important and urgent tasks. A CPS lawyer needed a report for an assault case that was due before the magistrates first thing on Monday morning. A family in Edendale whose burglary he was supposed to be investigating had been burgled again and needed calming down. A superintendent had invited him to volunteer for a farm security working group and wanted an answer yesterday.

Fry watched Cooper going through the ritual. She wasn't sure why it was that she found him every bit as irritating as Gavin Murfin. Murfin was stupid and lazy, but she could understand that. Ben Cooper was neither of those things.

'Ben, you took a long time at the Snake Inn,' she said.

'Sorry.'

'Do you realize how stretched we are here?'

'Of course,' he said.

'I'm not asking you to cut corners,' she said, 'but I need you to be making the best use of your time. So let me know where you are in future, if you're going to be delayed.'

'Listen, Diane, I've asked Peter and Grace Lukasz to try an identification on the Snowman.'

She stared at him. 'Have you now? Ben, are you working this enquiry on your own?'

'No, but — '

'So how come you talked to the Lukasz family again? Was that on your list of actions?'

'No. I used a bit of initiative.'

'Well, don't.'

'They don't know the whereabouts of their son. They haven't seen him since Sunday.'

Fry stopped and stared at him. 'Have they reported it?'

'No.'

'Description?'

'It's a rough match with the Snowman. Besides, Grace Lukasz is the only one who saw this man who's supposed to have visited Woodland Crescent on Monday.'

' Supposed to have?'

'I don't think she's telling the entire truth,' said Cooper. 'Her husband wasn't home, and her father-in-law is in some world of his own. As for the neighbours, it seems the man who called at the Lukasz bungalow didn't visit anybody else in the street. That doesn't sound like any salesman I ever heard of. It will be interesting to see what she makes of the Snowman, anyway.'

'All right,' said Fry. 'But for God's sake let me know what you're doing in future, Ben.'

'There's another thing,' said Cooper.

She sighed. 'Go on.'

'The staff at the Snake Inn remember no four-wheel drives. Is it possible the Snowman's body was left in that lay-by overnight, before the snow started?'

'Not possible. There was snow underneath the body. And take another look at the video of the scene. It's perfectly obvious that the body would have been visible to traffic coming up the hill. Even in the dark, you would see it in your headlights.'

'It wouldn't be the first time people had just driven on by.'

Fry tapped her fingers. 'That would mean we'd have to do roadside checks on motorists. That's more time and more staff.'

'Sorry.'

'I'll let the DI know. Anything else?'

'Not for now.'

'Clear up your messages, then.'

Fry watched him for a few minutes longer as he began to make phone calls. She listened to him placating people who were becoming more and more anxious that nothing had been done on their enquiries. He was good at that — people on the other end of the line started off angry or upset and went away feeling that they had his full attention and sympathy. Fry wondered how she could get Cooper's full attention. Maybe she ought to get angrier herself, or more upset. Nothing else seemed to work.

Cooper picked up the message form he'd put aside. Urgent or important? Neither, of course. Yet, of all of them, this was the call he most wanted to make. He put it into his pocket, pulled on his coat and carried his cap as he followed Fry to the car park.

He found the cold air outside refreshing. To get to his car, he had to cross a treacherous rink of compacted ice where dozens of police vehicles had spun their wheels on their way in and out of the compound. Someone would have to clear the ice soon, or there would be members of the public falling and breaking their legs, and the county court would be full of negligence cases against the police. That would play hell with the budgets, all right.

Cooper supposed he ought to make an effort not to get himself into trouble with Diane Fry. Not only was she his supervisor, but she already had a hold over him, a suspicion that had never been mentioned between them, only ever hinted at, so that it might only have been his own delusion that she knew his secret. But one thing was sure. One more wrong move could blight his career. He could end up one of those embittered old warhorses who'd given up hopes of promotion or recognition. He could end up like Gavin Murfin, who no longer cared whether everyone thought he was a joke.

But there was something about the way Fry approached it that rankled. Every time she gave him the benefit of her advice, it made him want to do entirely the opposite. It was exactly what he heard married men say about their nagging wives.

Cooper looked again at the message form he'd put in his pocket. Miss Alison Morrissey had called to speak to him and would like him to phone her back. It was an Edendale number, so he guessed she was still staying at the Cavendish Hotel. He hadn't yet decided whether he was going to talk to her. He wanted to be sure of his ground before he had the confidence to face her.

But Alison Morrissey needed his help. Fry didn't need him at all — in fact, she would be better off without him, because she could get on and organize everybody the way she wanted them. The contrast between the two women couldn't be clearer.

The Snowman looked as though his eyes might open at any moment. The colour of his skin reminded Cooper of the real snowman that someone had built in the churchyard at All Saints. It was close to the road, and over the last few days the fumes from passing traffic had turned it grey and unhealthy.

He looked at Peter and Grace Lukasz. They'd already seemed upset when they arrived at the hospital mortuary.

'Are you sure you're all right?' he said. 'We can do this tomorrow morning, if you prefer.'

'No, it's all right,' said Lukasz.

The mortuary assistant drew back the plastic sheet fully from the face of the corpse. Cooper watched the couple carefully. Lukasz actually seemed to become calmer when he saw the face. But his wife was riveted by the sight. She edged her wheelchair a little nearer to study the details of the Snowman's hair and skin.

'Well, it certainly isn't our son,' said Lukasz. 'I've never seen this man before in my life.'

'Mrs Lukasz?' said Cooper.

'Of course it isn't Andrew.'

'But have you seen him before? Do you think this is the man who called at your home on Monday?'

'It's difficult to tell,' she said. 'Seeing him like this… and, well, I met him for only a moment or two. But I think it could be him.'

'Have you thought of anything else that might help us to identify him? Any little detail at all?'

'I don't think so.'

'Thank you.' Cooper nodded at the attendant and watched him cover the Snowman's face. The Snowman had been travelling, and he seemed to be unknown locally or in neighbouring areas. He wondered whether Gavin Murfin had contacted Europol yet.

'Mrs Lukasz, did you happen to notice whether this man had an accent at all?'

Grace Lukasz rubbed her hands on the wheels of her chair and looked up at her husband. 'He didn't say much, so I couldn't tell.'

'What did he say exactly?'

'He asked if Mr Lukasz was at home. That was all.' She turned away, and they began to head for the exit.

'But which Mr Lukasz did he want?' said Cooper.

Grace stopped. Her back was towards him, her shoulders tense. Her husband stepped behind her to push the wheelchair. 'I don't know,' she said. 'But Peter wasn't home, and I couldn't let him bother Zygmunt.'

Cooper frowned at their backs, irritated by their apparent lack of imagination, their readiness to ignore the possibilities.

'It didn't occur to you that he might be looking for Andrew Lukasz?' he said.

'But Andrew had already gone,' said Peter.

'Exactly.'

On her way home to her flat in Grosvenor Avenue, Fry called at the shop on the corner of Castleton Road. It was run by a Pakistani family, who were unfailingly polite to her, whatever mood she was in. Some days she left the shop feeling guilty that she'd failed to respond to their kindness. But those were the days when Edendale was the last place she wanted to be, anyway.

Fry had bought a bottle of milk and a frozen pepperoni pizza. Near the counter, she picked up some newspapers, in case there was nothing on TV tonight that she could bear to watch. She'd lived alone for a long time, but she was hardened to it. She was able to hold back the tide of loneliness quite easily now, as long as there were no people around. The difficult times were when she heard the students who lived in the other flats laughing and calling to each other, coming back from the pub with their friends and playing music as they sat around putting the world right. That was when she needed all her strength. It was clear to her that Ben Cooper would not be able to cope with living alone. He had no idea what it was like.

When she reached the flat, Fry glanced at the local papers while she heated up the pizza and boiled the kettle. The first thing she realized was that the Canadian woman, Alison Morrissey, had been to the newspapers. In fact, she must have contacted them in advance of her arrival with information on the purpose of her visit.

The Eden Valley Times had done a full-page feature on her. So had the Buxton Advertiser. There had been items in the city papers, too, the Sheffield Star and the Manchester Evening News. Each of them carried pictures of the woman herself. Fry recognized her immediately as the woman she'd seen talking to Ben Cooper at Underbank.